09 Girl Talk
by Thescarredman
Summary: Kat and Anna let their hair down on a road trip. But the conversation isn't about makeup or the new Ethan Stills movie.
1. Body Count

Saturday March 25 2006  
Escondido

"Caitlin, hon, are you sure you're okay? I can do this alone, if I have to." They were stepping out the back door, on their way to the garage. The sun was well up, but most of the back yard still lay in the house's long shadow; from the look of it, the little space wouldn't get much sun before noon.

Kat yawned and took a sip from her travel mug. "Not a problem. Just let me get to the bottom of this, and I'll be fine. I've aced finals on less sleep." She looked down at her cup. "Which I was _just_ starting to get ready for. Just one more year to finish my postgrad. Rats."

"Don't worry, hon. We'll find another school and get your credits transferred. You won't lose much time."

She watched their little den mother close the door, shift her purse and a little overnight bag into one hand, and make sure the alarm was armed against entry. "I've been meaning to ask you. What number do _you_ punch in?"

"Well, my birth date would be one-oh, oh-four, nineteen-ninety-six, I guess; that's when they brought me online in the lab. But I use oh-two, oh-four, two thousand four; that's the day I met Jack." She closed the clear cover on the panel. "That's when my life began, really." They started towards the garage.

"Uh huh. By the way, I think your kitchen is gorgeous." _I'll bet Sarah's bedroom is, too. Not that I'll ever set foot in it._

Anna beamed. "Thank you. I can hardly wait to settle into it and start cooking some real meals, once we're not looking over our shoulders every minute."

"I liked the little three-seat nook in the back, especially. Cozy. But I was surprised you didn't go with commercial appliances."

"No need; I'm not running a restaurant. But I bought top quality in residential stuff." Anna halted a few feet from the second of the six doors, and produced a key ring with a remote-entry fob. "This opens the garage door, too. The other kids can have the van today. Let's see what's behind door number two."

The door rose silently. No lights came on in the bay. At first, all she could see was a pair of headlight lenses against the dark interior, uncomfortably like eyes staring from a cave's mouth; then her eyes adjusted to the deeper darkness of the garage.

"What do you think?"

She was at a loss; she didn't know what Anna wanted her to say. "Well … it's kind of hard to see."

"Exceedingly. Flat black, Jack's favorite color."

"And it looks really … powerful. Muscly."

"That's why they call them muscle cars, darling."

"And it looks like it's frowning. Sinister, almost."

"Reminds you of the Batmobile?"

"God. Yes." The body was still oddly indistinct in the unlighted garage; in a flash of imagination, she pictured herself standing at the entrance to a dragon's lair.

Anna grinned. "Dodge Charger SRT8. Four hundred twenty-five horsepower, six-liter engine. Electronic suspension control. Five speed autostick transmission. Daytona steering."

"I'm a chip head, Anna, not a gear head. What does all that mean?"

"It means that if you're idling at a stop light, you can step on the gas and say, 'I wanna be doing sixty miles per hour,' and you _are_. You can make it corner like it's on rails, or swap ends with a twitch of your hand; I can teach you how. And, if need arises and you're on a long straightaway, you can outrun almost anything in the police fleet … including aircraft."

"Yeesh. I'm scared to get behind the wheel."

"Don't be. It's polite, and eager to please." Anna handed her the keys. "Electric seat. Run it back before you get in."

"As always." She opened the door and hit the seat button. She picked up a whiff of new-car smell as she leaned in. "I know it's black and all, but it seems harder to see than it should."

"I've made a few modifications."

She put on a smooth British accent. "What have you cooked up for us this time, Q?"

"Humph. All the badging and brightwork is off the body or painted over, including the wheels. The paint is original, but the clear coat has been chemically treated to cut the gloss. It's a black hole at night, and even in daylight, the body lines are vague enough to make ID difficult; there are lots of Chargers on the road, and several other cars have a similar body style and silhouette. The tires are filled with foam instead of air; you might shred one off the rim with a machine gun, but you won't flatten it with a pistol or rifle. Climb in."

She ducked her head to get in, as always, and then straightened out cautiously. She rolled down the window. "Hey … this isn't bad. It seems bigger on the inside than the outside." The interior was almost economy-car plain, but well laid out. The seats felt snug, but intentionally so; even the leg room was decent, and her hair barely touched the headliner.

Still outside the driver's window, Anna said, "It's a big car. Even the back seat is fairly roomy. Weight is just over two tons. Fire it up."

The inside of the garage filled with a deep, throaty rumble that suggested barely restrained power. Anna's eyelids drooped. "Is that sexy, or what? I think testosterone comes out the tailpipes along with the hydrocarbons." She pointed through the window to three rocker switches on the lower dash near the steering column; two were lighted. "Three more things. See the red lighted switch? Hit it."

She did, and the light went out. "You just disabled all your rear lights, including the brake lights. Should make you harder to follow or chase after dark." She flipped it back on, quickly. "The yellow lighted one disables your ABS and your computerized suspension and steering controls, for fancy maneuvers. Without training, though, you'll drive better with them on, so leave it alone. And as for the third switch, the unlighted one. Do you know what a caltrop is?"

"Medieval land mine: an iron ball with four spikes spaced so one always points up. They used to sow battlefields with them to blunt cavalry charges."

"They work great on car tires, too. There are a couple hundred of them in the spare tire well under the trunk floor. The rocker is a three-position switch: second position releases half of them, the third releases the rest. They slide down a chute and drop to the ground behind the car. If they're still bouncing when the next car passes over them, they'll puncture oil pans and gas tanks, rip loose brake lines … you get the picture. Be very careful with these, hon, and use them only as a last resort. If you drop them on a four-lane highway, someone's going to die."

Her gorge rose as she imagined the carnage that would result from a dozen close-packed cars suddenly losing all their tires at highway speed; she swallowed. "Right."

Anna said, with a smile and a snooty British accent, "That's all then. Do try to bring it back in one piece, won't you, Gen Thirteen?" She walked around the car and got in the passenger side. Caitlin's hand was on the wheel; Anna laid hers over it. "The keys are yours, by the way. Let Jack have first dibs on it when he's in town; otherwise, this baby belongs to our team leader."

"Um, thanks. But I don't really need a car of my own."

The little blonde's eyebrow lifted. "Then don't drive it. But I'm betting you will."

She gripped the wheel, listening to the engine purr, feeling it through the seat and in her legs. The seat cradled her hips and head firmly; she could imagine she was in the grip of something powerful, more powerful than herself. It was an illusion; from where she sat, she could rip it apart like a cardboard box … and yet, it was something that could push _her_ around, as well. Sixty miles per hour in five seconds …

"Gearshift's under your right hand, girlfriend. Gas pedal under your right foot."

"Smarty. I'm just thinking."

"Driving is a wonderful way to put your thoughts in order. You can shift it like a manual without a clutch or just shove it in Drive, and off we go."

"This is Mr. Lynch's car?"

"You'll share it. I bought it for him, but I think you'll be driving it more. Not what I would have picked out for you … but now that I see you in it, I think it suits you."

She put it in gear, and the beast rolled smoothly down the drive. "Can you really teach me to drive like a maniac?"

"With this car, it would be easy."

"Later, maybe. Where to?"

"Take two lefts and then drive until you hit Centre City Parkway, and turn north. We'll follow it for quite a while; very scenic road."

"Meaning it's another back road with no cameras."

"That too. It'll turn into Champagne Boulevard, and then Old Highway 395 before we leave it to get on I-15 in Temecula."

"We're headed for _L.A._?"

"Well, San Diego would have what I'm looking for, but it's probably a little too hot yet. L.A. is second choice." Anna locked eyes with her. "Lots of time to chat, just the two of us." They reached the Parkway, and headed northwest on a busy four-lane road that looked no different from an expressway.

"Scenic."

"Give it a few miles, hon."

"Okay. So, where do you want to start?"

"Pick an easy subject to start, if you like."

"All right. How many people did we kill yesterday?"

"Oh, hon." The commando housekeeper shook her head. "None, quite possibly. Let's recap. Was anyone in the Suburban when you demo-derbied it?"

"No, they were all outside shooting at me, except for the driver, and he jumped out when he saw me taking aim."

"So you're in the clear."

"Sure, pure as the driven snow, that's me."

"The two that Sarah took down in the garage. It doesn't take much current to kill a person, but people survive lightning strikes all the time, and they were alive when we left. They'll have medical problems, severity and duration unknown, but they'll live.

"Now the tail that Roxanne took down in the mall – did he throw his hands out?"

"Yes. Barely."

"Fine. Broken bones, maybe flattened his nose, but he didn't break his skull or his neck. The two in the car she trashed … they experienced the equivalent of a low-speed head-on collision; the commonest way for someone to get hurt in a head-on is when they get spit out of the car. That didn't happen, so I bet the airbags deployed, and they're just fine."

The road narrowed to two lanes and began to curve back and forth, passing through woods and small housing tracts. They almost had the road to themselves; occasionally they could see I-15 through the trees on their left, bustling with traffic. The big car purred, seeming quieter – and happier - at highway speed than when it was idling in the garage. "What about your tally, Anna?"

"Well, let's work it backwards. The people in the chopper and the cars are like I said before; broken bones, cuts and bruises, nothing more. The ones I shot … none of the bullets was fatal, but fifty-cals deliver an awful beating, and you can die of shock with scarcely a mark on you. But we cleared out quick enough for them to get medical attention, so I'm not too worried about them. The two men I hit in the face … I can't be sure. I don't think so. But I don't know."

They rolled through a few traffic lights and headed into deeper woods, interspersed with light industrial sites; semis appeared on the road, which she passed with ease. It really was a nice car, she decided. "There's one more, Anna."

"Oh?"

"The one you left in the bathroom."

Anna leveled her gaze on her. "It was blood on my ear, wasn't it?"

She nodded. "Nobody else saw it, you weren't turned the right way. I wiped it off, thinking it might cause a panic. Little did I know."

"Thanks anyway. For the trust."

"I trusted you the moment I met you. Your motives, anyway. Have to admit, I was a little worried for your sanity yesterday. So what about him?"

"I beat some information out of him. He may never be the same, but he'll live. I used him to spread some disinformation."

"Such as?"

"I tried to make them believe that we're new recruits in a Genactive resistance group, and that we're ready to start ambushing pickup teams and assassinating IO bigshots."

"Youch. Would you?"

She shook her head. "It'd be suicide, even if there were fifty of us. I was just hoping to get them to back off long enough for us to relocate and settle into our new hideout. Worried for my sanity, huh?"

"We all were. The girls, anyway; we saw more. It wasn't just what you did, it was the way you did it."

"Skillset files are like that. It's as if you've done it a thousand times."

"I've seen you use skillsets before, Anna. It was more than that. You were smooth, on top of your game. You were in your element."

Anna looked away, through the windshield and down the hood. "My combat-skills package, the Alpha file. It's huge, bigger than any ten other locked files I have; they put a lot of time into it. Only a fraction of it unzipped, to let me take down twenty armed men. If that was just a taste of what's inside, IO must have intended me to be one _bad_ motherfucker. But it's nothing I'd ever choose for myself, Kat."

She felt a flush of shock. "You _never_ cuss like that."

"Grabs the attention when I do, huh?"

"And you haven't called me Kat in, like, two years."

The little blonde paused, as if she were consulting her files. "No. Not once since I learned your given name. You think that's odd?"

"Guess not. You never shorten Roxanne's name, either. And Sarah's always 'Sarah'."

"What else would it be?"

"_I_ can think of a few things you might call her."

Anna snorted. "Let it slide, hon. She's her own worst enemy."

"Uh-uh. Not any more. I've got a feeling she's going to have a hard time striking up a conversation in the house for a while. What _is_ it with you two? She treats you like _dirt_; always did, even when we thought you were flesh-and-blood. And you always ignored it, and went out of your way to be extra nice – and that's saying something."

Anna tapped her finger on the dash, as if uncertain whether to say anything. "I'm sorry, hon. I know I shouldn't play favorites. I don't mean to."

"No one notices _that_; you spoil _all_ of us. It just makes me grit my teeth sometimes, the way she's always looking for a way to put you down, like she's better than you, because … well, heck, I don't even know. It's not because you're a machine, she just uses that to get her digs in. It reminds me of the way the popular kids used to treat the nerds. I can't figure it. Or why you let her. Why do you put up with it?"

Anna stared at the dash. "I can't let her push me away. She needs me too much."

"Say _what_?"

She shook her head. "I know how much you've all lost. Family and friends, your homes … even your pasts, some of you. Twice now, you've had to turn your backs on everything you owned and run. But Sarah feels her losses more keenly than the rest of you. It's not self-pity, really; I think it's cultural. She feels her differences keenly, too. She's cut off and alone, even surrounded by friends who'll risk their lives for her. I'm just trying to give her as much comfort as I can."

"Well, if screwing with people's heads makes her happy, she must be in heaven right now." They were passing through country-club territory; off to the right, she saw golf courses spread their rolling expanses of green and driveways blocked by wrought-iron gates set in masonry posts. She briefly wondered what it must be like to have burglars and vandals as the chief threat to your domestic tranquility, and the health of your stock portfolio as your biggest worry. "Let's go back to the original subject, little den mother. That Alpha file of yours has more in it than how-to; there's something in there you shouldn't carry around in ignorance – it's a bomb inside your head. Isn't there some way to take a good look at it without opening Pandora's Box?"

"Not that I know of, but if you think it's that important, I'll trust your judgment and go to work on it." She smiled. "Carefully. I'll try not to snip the red wire by accident."

Conversation turned to lighter subjects: the new house and its environs. Anna seemed to have spent a lot of time researching Escondido, and she reeled off statistics on the town like a tour guide. "It's a beautiful little city, full of parks and museums. Population is about a hundred and fifty thousand, split almost even between whites and Hispanics, with a leavening of other groups. Native Americans don't live in town, but they're frequent visitors; it's surrounded by reservations. None of us stands out there. The ocean's a thirty minute drive, but there are some nice lakes close by."

"I'm sold, Anna. Really. When do we see the other half of the house?"

"The subfloors? Mostly utility, storage, and mechanicals, with a lot of empty space. I'll give a tour to anybody who's interested."

"Are you going to show it all to me, or am I going to have to go down there with a tape measure, looking for secret rooms? I'm dead serious, Anna."

Anna blinked at her. "Kat, what's wrong?"

"Guess I'm just getting tired of secrets and surprises and need-to-know."

The little housekeeper regarded her gravely. "I know it's been coming at you nonstop since yesterday afternoon. I'm not trying to push you off-balance, truly. I've had some unpleasant surprises myself, no few of them coming from inside my own head."

"Sorry."

"Needn't be. Downstairs, there's nothing I need to keep from you, and quite a bit our team leader should know about, just in case. But I have a million secrets locked up in my head: Jack's methods and connections, secrets and resources it would be risky or dishonorable to reveal; personal stuff about you guys that you'd rather die than see spread around; secrets my own brain hides from me, that it reveals on a need-to-know basis. You can trust me to keep your secrets as well as I keep everyone else's."

She snorted. "What secrets do _I_ have worth keeping?"

"Well … what about that time at the Project, before you manifested, when Sarah made a pass at you that you didn't _quite_ turn down?"


	2. History Lesson

She felt her face flaming. "How the _hell_ did you know about that?"

"Jack trashed the Genesis Project's database and mainframe when he left; backups too. But they had mikes and cameras all over the school, and they kept a separate archive of the recordings. They've been using them as part of their effort to reconstruct their files. When they find something pertinent to locating a runaway, it goes to Operations, and that's how I gained access." She paused. "It's a very imprecise method, and quite disorganized. A lot of the individuals in the pictures go unidentified without some cross-reference or clue from the audio. Sarah Rainmaker backing little Caitlin Fairchild up against her locker for a kiss was just ten seconds in a crowded hallway scene, but _I _recognized you both."

She was suddenly aware of a traffic light going from yellow to red, directly in front of her. She stamped on the brakes, and the big car stopped abruptly without a squeal. "I don't know what came over us. I'd just got one of those weird letters from home, and I was down about how … cold and impersonal it seemed. I turned seventeen at the Project, and the 'Happy Birthday' greeting I got from my folks sounded like something from Hallmark. I sort of boo-hooed to Sarah about it. I thought she was just being friendly and sympathetic, and then… It never happened again, and we never talk about it."

"To me, it looked rather more sweet than lusty. I thought it was one of Sarah's rare displays of affection. Regardless, only the three of us know, and if anybody else finds out, it won't be from me."

The light changed, and they took off, and she noted that the road was becoming busy again, with numerous drives branching off. "Okay. Point taken. I _don't_ want to know everything you've got locked up in your head, and I'll just have to trust you to tell me what I need to know." She turned to fix her with a stare. "Whether you want to or not."

Anna nodded. "Agreed. I won't keep something from you without a better reason than personal discomfort. Not mine, at least; I've _never _done that. But sometimes I feel like you're already burdened enough, Kat."

She shook her head. "I have to be the one who decides that, Anna."

"Okay." Anna looked through the glass. "There's a second video archive, separate from the first, and _much_ more secure."

She felt her stomach knot. "From the cells?"

"Yes," Anna answered quietly. "All those mirrors were one-way, you know that. But there was a camera behind each, running nonstop. They recorded _everything_."

Softly she said, "Oh. Those _bastards_." She felt sick, and deeply angry. "Who _are _these people, that they think they can do anything they want and get away with it?" She heard her voice tremble. "Who gave them the _right_? A government that would do that … doesn't deserve allegiance."

Anna laid a hand over hers where it gripped the wheel. "Easy, Che. I think I told you before. The government doesn't know what IO's up to."

"Then why isn't somebody watching them? Where's the oversight?"

"Same as with any other U.S. intelligence agency. Congress makes them submit a line-item budget, so nothing gets funded that they don't know about. If a project is too 'black' to expose to public scrutiny, it goes first to a special congressional committee with the security clearance to oversee it, and they recommend approval – or they don't. The President and select people in the Executive Branch get regular briefings on what they need to know."

The road veered left towards the interstate, and began to rise; it looked like they were going to cross over it. "That's how it's supposed to work, anyway. Sometimes officials in the agencies lie about what they're asking money for; if they get caught, they go to jail. Sometimes they move money out of an approved project into an unapproved one; if they get caught, they go to jail." The tree cover fell away and the sky opened up above them as the highway rose over the interstate; she felt exposed to numberless observers. "IO is different. The money it gets from Congress is less than one percent of their _real_ operating budget. What they tell the Intelligence Subcommittee is pure smokescreen, and if any of its members find out something they shouldn't, well, IO has ways of dealing with that."

"Such as?"

"First, with money; IO is fabulously well-funded, and they can buy a lot of cooperation. Then there's fear; a lot of their intelligence-gathering turns up nasty secrets that they can use to persuade people, and if they can't be persuaded … an outfit like IO doesn't have any trouble making people disappear."

She thought of the police in La Jolla. _How much money and … whatever … does it take to shoulder a modern city police department out of your way, so you can commit any crime you like? Why wasn't yesterday's melee all over the front page and the nightly news?_ _How do you silence the media, and all the casual witnesses? Has our society really become so fearful that they can be persuaded to turn their heads and forget everything they saw?_

"The President thinks that IO is just one of a half-dozen obscure little specialized intelligence agencies, like the Threat Analysis Section of the DHS. But he loves it, because it seems to work miracles with its miniscule budget.

"That's how it got started, you know. Back in the early Sixties, when it looked like the Soviets were going to land a man on the moon first and people all over the US thought their country was falling behind in the technology race, the government created a small intelligence agency with a mandate to ferret out dangerous technological secrets anywhere in the world. They called it International Operations; a sort of cover name, like Universal Exports, or the Hidalgo Trading Company." She must have looked blank, because Anna continued, "Famous front organizations for secret agencies.

"In truth, it didn't have much to do. Despite propaganda to the contrary, the US led the world in almost all tech applications, and the Soviet lead on space technology was slipping away. For about six years, IO just bumped along, picking up the odd political hack and adding him to the payroll. Then, everything changed when a man named Miles Craven was appointed Director.

"By all accounts, Craven was a genius, a man who could have accomplished nearly anything he set out to do. He had an unbelievable knack for reading and handling people, and he was a superb manager. He would have been wildly successful in business or politics. But he was a patriot, of sorts, and a visionary. Not that you'd want to live in _his_ vision of America. But he saw the coming technology boom, and got himself put in charge of a government agency whose charter put it on the cutting edge.

"He moved in, and cleaned house. The appointees were convinced to find retirement jobs elsewhere. The only people he kept were the ones who'd been doing the real work, slight as it was, and beating their heads against bureaucratic stone walls.

"IO's new head convinced his backers in Congress that the surest way to protect America from hostile nations with technological capability was to make sure the US was in the lead where it counted. He claimed that, instead of chasing every avenue of developing technology, we should determine _which_ ones would likely develop into the next threats, and make sure the US was the front runner in their development.

"It was a risky proposition. Technology was branching out all over, and new discoveries were being made all the time. How could anybody choose what might be vital to US interests in five or ten years, or what avenue of research might lead to the next superweapon? But they gave him his budget and told him to show them what he could do.

"He started by picking a technology that he thought would prove crucial by the time they got something off the drawing board. Then he assembled a research team, choosing people with energy and fresh ideas. Craven did this by recruiting straight out of the tech colleges and hand-picking the best and brightest in his target technology, all his budget could handle, and setting them to work with a clearly stated goal and a minimum of oversight. They worked like sled dogs for him; he was a man who could inspire people. And the lack of political elbow-jiggling meant they could get more done with less money."

"You want to explain that?" They were back on a tree-lined two-lane, passing golf courses, small orchards, and neat little subdivisions, but the interstate now paralleled them on the right.

"You've never seen what a government bureaucracy can do to a science project? You've been following the supercollider debates, right?"

"Well, there's bound to be a controversy over something like that. Those things are _expensive_."

"Hon, the US military spends more money in a week, even in peacetime. The bill to install redesigned mile markers on the interstates will cost more. The controversy isn't about how much; it's over who gets it. After two years of fist fighting, they've settled on three possible sites – which happen to be in the home states of the chairmen of the three committees that need to sign off on the project. They're all members of the same party; the President, who's a member of a different party, is threatening to veto the bill authorizing the expense, despite a well-documented scientific need for more colliders. Not that the monster that's being proposed is what's really needed, but the bureaucrats need to feed the big businesses that write the campaign checks. The project will end up years behind schedule, billions over budget, unsuited to research requirements, and nearly obsolete by the time it's completed."

"It can't be that bad."

"It's worse. I did a little digging; the whole issue began with a research group appealing to the Science Committee to be bumped up the waiting list for a collider, because their research program was stalled until they could get a couple of weeks collecting data. There are quite a few colliders in this country, but they're all booked solid.

"But every project in the lineup is sponsored by somebody on the science committee, and nobody wanted to give up the slot. This led to a proposal to build another collider. Instantly you got a battle between rival committee members who'd like to see the billion-dollar project built in _their_ district. And the plans for the project got bigger and bigger, as contractors with deep pockets for campaign contributions weighed in. Eventually, you got a Congressional debate over the siting and funding of a new supercollider, and the original request was long forgotten. Except by the committee members who want to know why the researchers aren't getting anything done. That research group got its funding cut, and most of the team members found work elsewhere. If they got their slot on the collider tomorrow, it wouldn't matter now; the program is gutted." She shook her head. "It's a miracle _any_ research project produces anything useful once the government gets involved."

"What about Apollo?"

"A very different proposition. First and foremost was public involvement: it was presented as a task for the American people, not its government, and they'd been given a deadline. Meeting that challenge became a matter of national pride, and a tribute to a fallen President, one of the most popular in history. They wanted a man on the Moon before nineteen seventy, and they were in no mood for excuses; dragging your feet was a good way to get unelected or unappointed. Besides, the Apollo Project opened the national treasure chest and dumped it over for anybody to pick through; for once, there was plenty for everybody. With the politicians and their supporters fed and happy, the scientists and engineers were allowed to work without ignorant hands on their ankles and elbows, and they performed what appeared to be a technological miracle. If you want to see what business-as-usual in government can do to a space project, study the shuttle program.

"Back to IO and _its_ research project. As it turns out, _they_ needed two weeks with a collider too. Back in the early Seventies, there was less demand for particle research, but there were fewer colliders, so the backlog was about the same."

"So they pulled strings and got moved up the list."

Anna smiled. "No. Getting his group put in front of all those other sacred cows would have been too conspicuous. Instead, Miles Craven shopped around the available colliders, talking to facility heads and technicians, and put his group on a list. Ten days later, that collider suffered a disastrous failure. The problem was fixed quickly, but most of the equipment needed recalibration to yield useful data, a couple weeks' work. As it turned out, Craven's people were about the only ones who could still use it. They got bumped to the front of the line and finished their research before the collider was fit for anyone else to use."

She swung out to pass a semi. As she was halfway past the lumbering rig, a car entered the two-lane road ahead from a drive on the left, without slowing and apparently without looking, and turned towards them. She stamped on the brakes; the car slowed so suddenly it seemed to have been yanked backward, and the truck shot by them. She jerked the wheel to the right and the beast stabbed back into the right lane just as the car jetted by.

"_Woo hoo!_" Anna shouted. "You did that like a _pro_!"

"It's incredible," she said. "_Now_ I'm terrified." She watched her hands trembling on the wheel. "It's like the car knew what I wanted from it before _I _did." She drew a shaky breath and reached for her mug. "I think I'll just stay back here for a while. So, what kind of weapon were they building?"

"An economic one. Craven figured there were already enough people building bigger bombs and slicker weapons systems; he wanted to find out who the next bunch of troublemakers would be, and develop a technological trump card that would win the next war without a shot fired. You know anything about the Arab Oil Embargo?"

"Just a little from high school history. OPEC shut off the pumps in the early Seventies, trying to make the industrial West abandon its military support of Israel. Right?"

"Right. Do you remember what came of it?"

She shook her head. "All that sticks in my mind is pictures of long lines at gas stations."

"That's about all that _did_ come of it. Eventually the Arabs declared we'd seen the light and turned the pumps back on. European nations softened their pro-Israel stance, but they'd only given Israel a fraction of its economic and military support anyway. The chief offender, the US, gave the oil producers a few empty promises and went back to doing as it pleased. Shortly thereafter, oil prices in the US _dropped_."

"IO had something to do with this?"

"Just before the embargo was lifted, the head of an obscure US intelligence agency begged an unofficial audience with the OPEC heads, on a matter vital to their nations' interests. When that meeting was over, so was the embargo. And no door at OPEC was ever closed to Miles Craven again."

"What did he _tell_ them?"

"I don't know, but I think it may have been more what he _showed_ them." The little housekeeper tapped her chest. "A portable, safe, easily mass-produced power source that ran on tap water. Oil is a useful raw material for all kinds of stuff, from plastics to fertilizers, but there are alternatives already on the market if oil becomes too expensive or hard to get, and recycling becomes cost-effective when prices go up, too. If people stopped _burning_ millions of gallons of gas every hour, the income and political influence of almost every country in the Middle East would evaporate in a month; so would their economies, since many of them produce almost nothing else. It was a threat more potent than nuclear weapons. The sheiks decided the Palestinians didn't need a homeland _that_ badly.

"That was the start of IO as an organization independent of the US government. Part of Craven's deal with the sheikhs was a 'royalty' on every barrel of oil they sold. Suddenly IO was rolling in cash they didn't have to beg from Congress; money, in fact, that Congress didn't even know about. Craven plowed it back into the organization and expanded his operation. He recruited more young geniuses from colleges all over the world and set them to work on a variety of projects. I don't know much about them, because almost everything the research teams develop or discover is locked away, suppressed."

"Heaven's sake, why?" The semi turned off, and the road ahead was open; she gave the throttle a little more gas, and the machine responded eagerly.

"Because Miles Craven clearly understood that _all_ technological advance is a threat to the status quo. He felt that the only way to safeguard the US from the threat of new technology – IO's original charter – was to develop it first, lock it away, and use the knowledge he'd made about the path of discovery to make sure no one else developed it independently. His scheme to hire all the most talented researchers had two objectives: he was using them to staff the spearhead tech projects IO was developing. But he was also taking what he regarded as the most dangerous people on the planet and bringing them together where he could watch them and control their research. And he kept a very careful eye on research projects not under his control, and squashed them flat if they got too close to a sensitive discovery."

The road began to be lined with orchards again; the air was fragrant with citrus. She breathed it in and said idly, "If I were doing research for years and never getting a chance to publish my work, I'd leave." Then it hit her. "He doesn't give them a choice, does he?"

"Not really. Most of these kids come from colleges that do government research, so they know what it's like pushing a project through to completion on government money. When they're offered a nearly unlimited research budget with a minimum of interference and paperwork, _plus _a salary that lets them live like video game designers, they flock to the IO front organizations like lemmings to the sea." The little blonde looked at her. "You've been through it; you know how it's done. They make you an offer that's too good to be true, which turns out to be even _better_ than they promised – at first. About the time you realize they left out a few important things, such as your freedom, you're helpless to do anything about it. If you make too much trouble … Miles Craven always believed in decisive action against threats to national security."

Caitlin thought about Joel, Melanie's brother and her first lab partner at MacArthur. He'd been a brilliant researcher, and totally mercenary; he'd have been a perfect recruit of the sort Anna was describing. He'd graduated a year ago, and taken a job offer he couldn't talk about that nevertheless left him breathless. Then he'd promptly dropped off the face of the earth, despite promises to stay in touch. Even his sister scarcely heard from him.

Her companion turned back to face the windshield. "Some of the oldest ones are being allowed to retire, once IO is sure there are no innovative ideas left in them. They leave IO wealthy and watched. A few have failed to keep their mouths shut, and were ruthlessly discredited. It's easy to get them dismissed as quacks; they lack the respect and credentials that a career full of published articles would give them. To the scientific community, they're people who dropped out of sight after college and reappeared thirty years later, spouting outlandish theories. Then they get a _really _bad tax audit, or a DEA raid uncovers homemade psychedelics in their basement, and no one will give them the time of day. Most of IO's retired researchers live _very_ quiet lives."

"So IO controls tech development all over the _world_? That's not possible."

"They control more of it than you'd believe, and it gets easier every year, as IO's influence over government and industry grows. There have been instances where Craven guessed wrong, or simply couldn't hijack the research; the telecom revolution was the one that stands out. I'm sure he would have crushed the Internet, if it had been possible, but it was being developed by too many independent sources. Instead, he introduced refinements that made the U.S preeminent in its development – and made it susceptible to manipulation, if you had IO's proscribed technology. You see some of that every time you show one of Jack's forged IDs. As for the rest… Did you ever watch _Star Trek? _The first series?"

"I'm no Trekkie. I never watched any of the spin-off shows like _Next Generation _or_ Deep Space Nine_ either. The first series was over twenty years before I was born. I caught a couple of episodes on the Sci Fi Channel, is all."

"Good enough. Remember their communicators? In nineteen sixty-three, a small handheld communication device seemed so far beyond current technology, they put them two hundred years in the future." She dipped into her purse and produced her cell phone. "And Captain Kirk's little gadget couldn't take and transmit pictures and record audio and video clips; it didn't have a calendar, phone directory or calculator; it couldn't give you your position anywhere on earth and display a map and directions to anywhere you want to go. Come to think of it, back then a four-function calculator small enough to fit in your hand would have seemed farfetched.

"_That's_ the kind of technological advance you get when IO's hand on the development is light. Look at what the futurists of the Sixties predicted for the twenty-first century: limitless power, flying cars, orbital stations with permanent residents, cities on the Moon, interplanetary commerce, soldiers armed with ray guns instead of rifles." She grinned. "Robots all over the place, doing everyone's work for them." Serious again, she said, "The technology for _all_ of that is locked away in IO's vaults. Plus a lot of stuff the popular visionaries never dreamed of." Her nostrils twitched. "There's probably a cancer cure in there somewhere."

"_Please_ tell me you're joking. Why would IO suppress it?"

"Because IO's _not _a philanthropic organization. The oil deal was just the first of a _lot_ of arrangements with governments and big business. IO's chief source of income stems from making revolutionary discoveries, then finding a reverse market for it: someone with deep pockets and a vested interest in keeping that new technology from seeing the light of day. I don't know details, but IO's getting payments from energy companies, pharmaceutical cartels, heavy manufacturing, the insurance industry, and a lot of companies with 'dot-com' in their names."

"So we're up against some combination of Microsoft and the CIA, with a private army thrown in. I knew IO was rich, just not _that _rich."

Anna shook her head. "Think bigger. _Way _bigger. Hon, IO could _buy_ Microsoft, just with their annual R&D budget. They have more income than most UN members, and no debt. A lot of power comes with that kind of money. Government leaders worldwide figure IO approval into their plans; they don't dare not. IO can collapse economies, buy elections, uncover the darkest secrets. Even despots who live inside palace walls and don't care if their people starve know better than to cross this mysterious organization that pulls so many strings; too many of them have found out how little protection they have against IO's X-teams."

"'What they don't own, they control; what they don't control, they influence. What they don't own, control, or influence, they neutralize,'" Kat said. "I read that in a pamphlet a guy handed me on a street corner once. It had a drawing of a black helicopter on the front."

"The New World Order is real, hon. It's just not quite the way the alarmists picture it."

"How do we _beat_ something like that?"

"Just the way we're doing it. We run when we have to, hide when we can, turn suddenly and snap our teeth if our pursuers get too close. We survive and stay free. We outlast them."

"But… they're getting _stronger_. It's taking everything we've got to stay ahead of them _now_."


	3. The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

Anna shook her head. "No. I know it looks that way, but IO is running on momentum. Its engines are dead. It's an Alexandrian empire, established and held together by the will of a single personality. Miles Craven is gone, and things started falling apart as soon as he died. But it's big, and it has a long way to fall, and it's going to be dangerous for a long time to come. And when it does fall, it's going to shake the earth."

"The hidden technology."

Anna nodded. "IO didn't put a stop to scientific research; they just dammed the flow from discovery to widespread application. But the lake behind the dam is getting awfully big after filling for thirty years, and the dam's base is crumbling.

"IO kept its secrets well, when Craven ran things. The troopers were some of the finest men in uniform, and they were ready to lay down their lives for what Craven made them believe they were a part of. Jack still admires the man, even knowing what a megalomaniac he was.

"His researchers might miss not being able to publish, but they were convinced they were doing vital work, and it was being suppressed for good reasons. They were sure their discoveries would be publicized someday, and they'd get full credit.

"The people in Planning and Administration had a better view of the _real_ IO, but Craven played the 'national security' card very well, and convinced some very good people to turn their eyes from some very shady dealings." The corner of Anna's mouth twitched. "And, of course, everybody was well paid."

"That's where his money comes from?"

"Yes. Even a parking attendant at IO makes triple what he could get anywhere else; he's expected to keep his mouth shut about who drives what, and when they come and go. Troopers in Operations are paid like senior officers in the U.S. armed forces, and they do things that would make worldwide headlines if they weren't so skilled at working quietly. And _anybody _whose job requires him to know that IO is more than an agency of the U.S. government is compensated like a CEO. As one of the top three people in the Shop, Jack was pulling a nine-figure salary."

The road began climbing, gently but steadily. Hills rose up ahead of them, visible over the trees. The powerful car took no notice, maintaining speed with an almost imperceptible amount of added pressure on the gas pedal. "I suppose… that kind of money would buy a lot of loyalty."

Anna shook her head. "Money doesn't buy loyalty. To make IO work, Craven needed the kind of people who held certain things higher than money. Money buys loyalty to money." She turned to her and laid a hand on her forearm. "You think Jack did it for the money?"

"No. Why, then?"

"Because Craven made them _believe_ in what they were doing; the money was just a token, evidence that their work was vitally important and appreciated. Even when people like Jack had their doubts, they were held together by their faith in Craven, and his faith in his vision. Now, Jack's sources and mine tell us that the organization is rife with disaffection. Ivana doesn't have Craven's talent for handling people, so she's getting rid of anyone who's shown reluctance to go along with the program. She's replacing them with people she feels she can trust – that is, people who never dissent or question. She rules by extreme application of the carrot and stick: princely salaries and performance bonuses, and draconian penalties for incompetence or disobedience."

She looked up at the hilltops. "IO's hiring practices don't make it easy to quit. That's the cork in the teakettle. The heavy policies of the new administration are the fire underneath. IO is an organization with a lot of passive-aggressives waiting for the axe to fall, or looking for a way out. Like I said, there are a lot of people more loyal to money than to Ivana. What's in IO's vaults may be worth _trillions_. Sooner or later, somebody will find a way past the safeguards, and the dam will burst."

A semi loomed up ahead, slowing as it labored up the grade. Gathering her nerve, she swung out and floored the accelerator, and the vehicle roared and leaped forward like a charging lion. The truck was dwindling behind them in seconds.

"You like the car, yes?"

"Yes." She backed off the gas, and the car coasted down to legal speed, purring contentedly. "I never had a car. They always seemed like too big an investment for too little return. Kids would fixate on their cars, or on each other's. They'd spend all their time with them. They took jobs to pay for them; they'd skip school just to ride around. I thought about having one, wondered what it'd be like. But if what other girls were going through was any indication, I couldn't afford one, more ways than one." _This is supposed to be his car. Right now, I'm belted snug and safe in his seat, holding his wheel in my hands, feeling the power of his engine. And, to push the analogy to its limit, his quick and enthusiastic response to my touch. _She glanced at Anna. _But I don't feel like I'm sharing something with him. I feel like I'm sharing something with you._

Anna said quietly, "It's not a consolation prize, darling. I just thought you'd like it."

"I do." Her hands tightened on the wheel. "When I drop you off, I may take off somewhere for a while. Out into the desert maybe, just him and me."

"Him?"

She patted the wheel. "Definitely." She looked through the windshield. "Yes. Someplace where we can open up, and I'll see if I've got the nerve to let him go as fast as he wants." She turned to the little blonde. "I don't really know how to drive, not something like this. You'll teach me?"

"Anything you want to know." They rode in silence for half a minute.

"Kay. So what happens when the dam bursts? A lot of big companies go out of business. Economic upheaval, until things readjust."

"Things aren't going to readjust easily, until the entire contents of IO's vaults are brought to light. Until then, investment in new technology will freeze solid."

"What? Wait, that doesn't make sense. Investors will stampede to put this stuff on the market."

"At first, maybe, until enough of them go broke. Take this example: looking through IO's research files, you uncover a chemical process that will allow you to make automobile tires that last a million miles. You drop half a billion dollars tooling up, thinking you're going to be the only firm manufacturing tires a year from now. About the time you start shipping tires, another firm announces a plan to retrofit existing roads and vehicles with maglev technology. What happens to the market for million-mile tires when they only touch a road maybe a hundred miles a month?"

"Ouch."

"So this new firm puts a billion into a thousand miles of interstate and a fleet of cars for a test bed, just in time for someone else to start building antigravity cars that don't need roads or wheels."

"Oh."

The little android's expression was sober. "Hon, the world has never seen the sort of political and economic upheaval that's going to result from this. No war, no depression, no plague has ever wrought the sort of changes we're in for. These last three decades would have been a time of incredible change. Dump all that revolutionary theory and applications on the world at once, and whole societies will disappear. Political lines and national boundaries may become irrelevant. We may have to devise a whole new economic theory to handle trade. And many nations' present system of laws will become impossible to enforce."

"You're talking anarchy. Hunker in the bunker."

She nodded. "I'm afraid the human race is in for a severe pruning. One can only hope it'll grow back stronger as a result."

"Anna, you've _got_ to be exaggerating. I mean, sure, cheap power will introduce big changes. A lot of people will lose their jobs, but they'll find brand-new ones. Poor countries will be able to farm more efficiently, and maybe industrialize-"

"And mass-produce atomic weapons to settle tribal scores, or rid themselves of those bothersome ethnic groups once and for all. New technology won't change human nature; Craven was right about that. And there will be wars fought over the continued suppression of technology, or its limited release. Let's look at a very mild example. Thousands of young men and women in uniform are being killed and wounded every year. Most of those casualties are from shrapnel and small-arms fire." She pinched the skin of her forearm. "What happens when our troops get issued head-to-toe leotards that let them walk through a hail of gunfire unharmed?"

"Wonderful."

Anna nodded soberly. "Until the enemy steals enough of them, or duplicates the manufacturing process. Making the soldiers on both sides bulletproof won't end wars. It'll just make it necessary for the combatants to carry heavier arms, ordnance that will guarantee more collateral damage. Combatants will be in less danger than civilians.

"And we can't stop there. Law enforcement all over the world will demand access to this stuff. Which means criminals will acquire it too. Every cop will have to carry a weapon that will beat that kind of personal protective equipment: guns firing armor-piercing bullets with exploding heads, maybe. How will it change the justice system, when policemen have to be given automatic authorization to use deadly force on any suspect who resists or flees?" She looked through the windshield. "Revolutionary technology really is revolutionary. You can't always see where it will lead. That's why it's best to introduce it gradually."

"But that's not going to happen."

"No. IO's hidden research is going to be like Pandora's Box: you open it a crack, and everything inside flies out, to go where it will, and the world will never be the same." She smiled. "But afterwards, Pandora looked inside, and found one thing that didn't fly out past recall. Hope."

"Hope."

"Hope for a better world, for a phoenix to rise from the ashes. The discoveries that will change mankind forever… are represented on the left side of this car, not the right."

"Anna, throwing cars is a gee-whiz kind of talent, but I don't see it changing the world. We've got machines for that sort of thing. Heck, it doesn't impact _my_ life that much."

"Aside from making you a fugitive, you mean. I agree. But the simple fact you can _do_ it hints at a universe that can't be explained by current theory. Using you kids as assassins is not only a moral atrocity; it's a criminal waste of an earth-shaking scientific discovery. There's no telling where a rigorous study of your talents may lead. The tech on the right side of the car is a collection of brilliant inventions. What's on the left side of the car may cause every scientific theory we now use to be drastically rewritten or dumped entirely."

"That's all a bit… esoteric, Anna. I repeat: it doesn't change my life much to be Gen."

"Hon, when was the last time you had a cold?"

"Um… before I left home, to go to the Academy."

"It must be different for late bloomers, then. But you haven't come down with anything since you manifested."

"All that California sunshine. Sea air."

"In the springtime, when I ride the bus, it sounds like an emphysema ward, all coughing and sneezing and throat-clearing. But there are no cold remedies in our medicine cabinet. There hasn't been so much as a case of the sniffles in the house in two years. The other kids can't remember ever being sick."

"Gen, you think?"

Anna nodded. "Yes. And that's just the start. I don't know how long being totally immune to disease will extend the human lifespan, but… Jack doesn't get sick either, not so much as a scratchy throat in over twenty years. He got a physical a couple days ago. The doctor said he was in great shape for a man half his age. When he manifested, he was an IO trooper, in great shape… and half his present age."

"Oh, come on. Now we're _immortal_?"


	4. Superior Specimen

Anna shrugged. "I don't know. IO doesn't know what they created when they made the Gen Twelves, and they know even less about the Thirteens. What I do know is that there's no recorded instance of a Gen dying of natural causes." She looked at her. "No surprise with you kids, but the Elevens and Twelves are getting old enough for age-related problems to be showing up. Half the Elevens are dead by their own hand, and another ten were killed when they got out of control. There are ten left, ages ranging from forty to sixty-five, and they're perfectly healthy, even the ones too crazy to let out of the basement.

"Of the thirty-four Twelves IO started with, twelve are dead by misadventure: killed on missions, that is, so IO knows they're dead. Four are missing and presumed still alive. Remove the ones who've disappeared from the sample, and you've got eighteen men, aged fifty to sixty, with perfectly normal medical histories prior to manifesting. Eleven of them are in restraints, having gone gradually insane over a period of years; but their health is monitored carefully. Operations monitors the men who are still active, not for research, but for performance evaluation. I don't think anyone at Research has even noticed that not one of those two dozen men, sane or insane, has been diagnosed with cancer or heart disease or diabetes; no arthritis or failing eyesight; not even male-pattern baldness or enlarged prostates. The troopers' times on their daily runs are within seconds of their thirty-year-old times. Their scores on the practice range average _better_."

Anna looked at her. "I don't know about immortality. But if you're careful, you're going to live a very long time. And if Roxanne smokes all her life, I bet she doesn't get cancer, or anything that quitting won't cure."

Anna let her drive in silence for a while, letting that sink in. "Right at the next intersection," she said. "Cross the expressway again and turn left."

Caitlin did, and the road climbed until they were on a low ridge. Orchards and greenery lined the road to their right; to the left, the expressway lay in the bottom of a steep cut. Both roads continued their steady climb. "I see now. This could cause a world war. If it's suppressed or restricted and its existence becomes common knowledge, the have-nots will do anything to get it away from the haves. That's short term. Long term, with lifespans extended God knows how long and the birth rate the same, we'll breed ourselves into extinction, a massive dieback, billions starving to death or killing one another. A Malthusian catastrophe."

"Caitlin. There's more."

"What could be bigger than _that_?"

"Gen-factor may be intelligent."

"Anna," she said slowly, "how far on the other side of the looking-glass are we going to go? Gen-factor's a _drug_."

"No. It's a series of treatments, including drugs. Also including engineered DNA, introduced by a viral agent. That's how your fathers' genes were altered.

"Evolutionary theory says that occasional mutations are introduced into a species, and natural selection determines whether they're conserved or disappear. Would a longevity gene be conserved through natural selection?"

"Well, sure."

"Why? It's not a species survival trait. As you pointed out, it can be harmful to a species to have its members live too long. And it slows the evolutionary process. Ideally, a species' individuals should only live long enough to reproduce, and maybe nurture their offspring to adulthood. Then they pass the torch, and die to get out of the way and conserve resources. So why are the long-life genetic changes from Gen-factor conserved in all Gen offspring?"

"I don't know. I must have slept through that class."

"Because those traits are linked to other traits that give Gens a distinct competitive and reproductive edge. So distinct, it's in the species' best interest to keep the individuals carrying them alive and breeding for as long as possible. You'd think it was part of the genetic designers' plan. Only it wasn't, any more than your weird talents."

"Like immunity from disease?"

"No, that was part of the original design; so were your speed and intelligence and athleticism. However. Did it never seem strange to you, how good-looking everyone at the Academy was?"

"Ivery looked like Ben Kingsley. And the lady who ran the kitchen looked like Ernest Borgnine."

"You know what I mean. Students, not staff. Including Matt and Nicole, because they're Gen too."

She nodded. "As if the Academy was the set for a movie about a school for gifted kids. We joked about it being part of the selection process. Asked each other what the audition was like, and what role we were cast in. You know, all the formula characters: class slut, the clown, the bully jock, the bitch cheerleader…. I was the dateless nerdy girl who turns into a beauty queen just by taking off her glasses."

"I'll bet you were."

"Not in that crowd. I faded right into the walls, until my change. Being pretty, that's the reproductive edge you're talking about?"

"One of them. Another is pure Gen. I started noticing it the first day I met you. Trawling through IO's database, I hit veiled references to an attribute, common among Gens, that they call 'I/S Effect.' 'I/S' stands for 'incubus/succubus.' You know the terms?"

"Gawd," she said, borrowing a term from her sister.

"I call it 'allure.' Sounds better, I think. It's real, some psychic effect. It's a little different for each of you, but you've all got it. In general, it works like this: under the right conditions, you can draw and monopolize the attention of members of the opposite sex, at ranges from five to fifty meters. It's emotionally triggered, and the intensity varies with the triggering emotion. For example, Roxanne broadcasts when she's happy, enjoying herself, feeling sensual pleasure."

_The empty dance floors._

"You and Sarah, on the other hand, mostly broadcast when you're scared, uncomfortable, uneasy. It's a little different for each of you. You and Roxanne can switch it off entirely, by removing the trigger emotion. You don't switch off much, hon, because guys stare at you all the time, and male attention makes you nervous. Sarah… seems to broadcast in more than one mode. She triggers the same as you, and when she starts acting the tramp besides, what you girls call 'slut mode,' she can bring the house down. But even when she's not trying, even when she's comfortable, maybe reading a book, cozy in her own little world, she's sending out a carrier wave that will turn a man's head within ten meters."

"Gee. And I always thought it was because she was mad hot."

"Believe me, hon, the most beautiful girl in the world doesn't have this effect on men if she's not Gen. Sure, a guy will stare at a pretty girl for thirty seconds if he can get away with it, while fantasies run through his head. That's different from having his whole attention pulled to a woman at first glance, helpless to look away. A passing sexual fantasy is a nothing like the sudden certainty that he's looking at the most desirable woman he's ever seen. The pheromone counts when you girls are out together in public are probably toxic. And if it was just a matter of your looks, why do other Gens seem to have a partial immunity?"

"Oh?"

"There are lots of times you've been nervous around Bobby. If he couldn't tear his eyes away from you, if he was looking at you with lust in his heart, you'd know it, wouldn't you?"

She swallowed. "I certainly hope so." She had a thought. "Does Bobby..."

"Yes. When he's uneasy or uncertain. Eddie, too, but that little horn dog has so much self-confidence it seldom triggers."

"I'm going to say a prayer of thanks for that tonight." Another thought struck. "Nicole."

"Yes. For her, it's not just a gimmick to give her a reproductive edge; it's her main talent, her big gun. Her allure is to yours and Sarah's as a jet engine is to a hair dryer, and her control is precise as a surgeon's. The carrier wave alone is so powerful, even women are affected. Even Gen females. Not by producing sexual desire, but a feeling of intimacy that makes her everybody's friend, somebody you can trust with your secrets. And when she fires up her projector and turns it on men, they become her slaves, I kid you not. She can take over a man's pleasure center entirely; make him behave like a junkie overdue for a fix, or induce paralyzing orgasms. And she's not gentle with men. There are references to her lovers… dying in the act."

"Bobby," she breathed. "She…"

"Her allure doesn't work on him. I don't know why. But it probably saved his life."

"The way she chased him was always so strange. Any guy at the Project would have gone a week without food for a night with her. She turned down passes every day at first; perfectly poised and matter-of-fact, like she expected every guy she met to try. She never made one feel bad about it afterwards. But Bobby was always different. He seemed uneasy around her, and the harder she hit on him, the worse it got." She quirked a smile. "And she was so clumsy about it. It made a lot of the other girls snicker, watching them together. I honestly think I would have had better technique, dateless wonder that I am."

"Caitlin Fairchild, if you didn't have a date every night of the week, it was by choice. I've seen the pictures. Even with the coltish figure and the glasses, you were beautiful." Anna looked at her, making a fanning gesture. "And that was _before_ you manifested. _Woo!_"

Something broke loose inside. Her mouth twisted. "This isn't beauty."

Suddenly the car's interior, which had seemed comfortably snug, now seemed claustrophobic; the air felt heavy and hot. _I'm taking up all the oxygen. Got to have air_. She wrenched the wheel to the right and stepped on the brakes.

"Hon, what's wrong?"

She pulled the car over to the shoulder and stopped. She fumbled with the seat belt and popped it off. Horns blared as she swung open the door and headed for the grass. She tripped on something and went down on her hands and knees.

"Caitlin!"

She got up and managed to get to the grass before she sank to her knees. Her vision blurred. _Dammit. I thought I was done with this._

She felt Anna's arms slip around her. "Hon?"

"If I'm so beautiful, h-how come he wuh-wouldn't even _look _at me?" She looked down. "This isn't me. I should look like you, or Roxy. Not some… Amazon… fertility goddess." Gradually, she regained control of herself, and her breathing eased, but her eyes kept misting up, making her blink. She hiccupped. "You're right, I suppose I could have had a boyfriend, but I was too reserved, too scared of looking stupid or getting hurt, too _something_. I'd see other girls, even ones who were plain as an old ball glove, _surrounded_ by guys and completely at ease when they were flirting. The boys keeping them company would glance my way and look through me as if I wasn't there. And I'd wish, just once in a while, that some guy would look at _me_." The breath that pushed out of her was almost a moan. "Oh, you should be _so_ careful what you wish for. Now almost every man who looks my way stares until his _eyeballs_ dry out, and he _still_ doesn't see me."

She folded her legs under her and sat, hands in lap, not caring about grass stains on her slacks. Anna's arms released her and refastened around her neck. "I don't even have anyone to talk to about it. No one understands. Guys think I'm fishing for compliments. Girls think I'm just BS'ing them for drama. Some of them say, 'I'd _love_ to have your problems.' Well, give it a try, sister. Walk a mile in my size elevens. See what happens the first time you don't run the car seat _all_ the way back before you get in, or walk through a doorway with more than an inch of heel on your shoes. You'll never have another meaningful conversation with a guy; you'll be lucky to get eye contact. Like to play dress up? Shopping gets boring when only three stores in town can sell you something besides sweats… and two of them carry the same merchandise. You can order online, but you can't hold something in your hands or try it on or ask a friend how it looks."

She brushed absently at the dirt on her thighs. "Last time I bothered to go through the racks, I found exactly seven pairs of pants in the whole store with a thirty-eight-inch inseam, none of which fit my waist. Dresses – forget it. Anything I can get past _these_ hangs off me like a burnoose. As the salesgirl delicately put it, I'm 'disproportionate.'"

Anna made no comment, but she felt the cyber's child-sized fingers comb through her hair.

"When it started, it was awful. It wasn't like puberty; it was like changing into a werewolf. I didn't know what was coming next, whether my clothes would even fit me the next morning. And every day, the kids would stare at me like a circus freak, looking for any change from the day before. I got leery of mirrors." She closed her eyes, feeling wrung out.

Anna's voice was lullaby-gentle. "Sweetheart… he looked, plenty. And it wasn't the pinup-girl carcass that took his fancy, either. He made you his team leader over his own son; that's a sign of respect for what you had before the change, and still have: courage and smarts. And he likes you as a person. When he looks at you, he _sees_ you.

"But he couldn't take his feelings for you any farther. He lives by a moral code that's convoluted to most people but very clear to him. You're a female under his protection, a dependent, and that makes you off limits; it would feel like taking advantage, trying to make you a whore. And there's something special about his relationship with your father, dear: I don't understand it, but it seems clear he feels he would dishonor one of his oldest friends if he was to… dally with his daughter. He knew about your feelings for him, and it touched him, deeply. But he convinced himself you were having a passing fancy; you were bound to realize someday you'd been obsessing over a horribly scarred man older than your father. That's why he kept his distance."

"Well, what about _you_? Aren't you a dependent? Aren't you too young for him?"

"As far as we can tell, IO's not looking for me, and I'm free to strike out on my own. That's why he started paying me; it was an acknowledgement that I could support myself and live independently if I wanted to. And age doesn't mean anything in reference to me. I was born looking the same age as you, and I'll look like this when you're a grandmother, if we're both alive by then. My life started two years ago, but I learn a lot faster than bios; I _live_ faster." The little cyber rested a chin on top of her head as she held her. "And I still had to _throw_ myself at him to get him. You'd blush hearing the story, believe me."

"Is this the part where you tell me I'll find somebody else?"

"No." She could feel Anna's head shaking as it rested on hers. "You have high standards. And you're going to find yourself surrounded by men who want to… either put you on a pedestal for worship, or mount you on the wall for a trophy; your sex-goddess looks _will_ make it tough to find the man you want. You'll have to learn how to separate the wheat from the chaff. Frankly, I don't know how you're going to do it; you need advice from a girlfriend with _serious _dating experience." She felt the expelled breath of a sigh. "I could wish Bobby were twins. That would be a perfect solution, wouldn't it? You could both have him then."

She was shocked. "I-"

She felt fingers on her lips. "Don't. I know better. I feel it too. They're stamped from the same mold. If you really love Jack, you can't help loving Bobby too. But he's spoken for, isn't he?"

She nodded. "Ever since I've known him, he's been hopeless over her. I'd never try to come between them, even though she treats him like dirt half the time. Maybe, if they broke up for good…" She shook her head. "But it'll never happen."

Anna gave her a hug. "I've got nothing to base it on, but I _do_ think you'll find someone. Someone as wonderful as you was never meant to go through life alone. In the meantime, you've got us, hon. All of us." Her manner changed abruptly. "Uh oh. Don't move. Highway Patrol."

Then she heard it too: the faint crunch of tires on gravel behind them, growing louder. "Do you think it's anything?"

"It's just because we're on the side of the road, but we're close enough to the mall and Miramar that an APB might be out. For us, not the car." Anna let go and straightened as they heard the car's idle change when it shifted into park. She saw the flashing lights now, reflecting off bits of mica in the grass. "Don't turn around, don't look this way. Don't get up for any reason. Don't wipe your face. I'll handle this." She heard her take ten or twelve steps towards the car. "It's okay," she heard her say. "She's just a little under the weather. We'll be back on the road in a few minutes."

The man's voice was young and stern. "Hung over, or still drinking? Are you the driver?" _Don't lie, Anna; one glance at the front seats and he'll know._

Anna pitched her voice so low she could barely hear. "She's the driver. It's not booze. It's chemo."

The tone of the patrolman's voice changed. "Cancer?"

"Uterine. They want to try drugs first. If she goes under the knife, she'll lose everything." She paused. "She's been dating this guy for a year. She thinks he's about to ask. But he wants kids. She's afraid he might leave her."

A pause. "Is she right? Would he?"

"She's kidding herself. I know them both. I _know _he'll leave her." Another pause. "God's sake, she's twenty years old."

She felt tears start fresh. _I know I'm feeling a little weepy right now, but this is ridiculous. She's got me crying over someone I know doesn't exist._

"Will she be okay?" Now he didn't sound like a cop at all.

"Yeah. She just needs a little time. She'll put herself back together again, and get on with it. I just hope, when her hair falls out, it comes out all at once, so we can get a wig made with it. That wouldn't be too much to pray for, would you think?"

She heard heavy shoes moving through the grass towards her. She rocked slightly. _Don't overdo it. _She hugged herself, concealing her breasts. _Would an APB include a description of these?_

He stopped to one side and just behind. "Are you okay, miss?"

She turned her head up towards him; it would have been suspicious not to. He glanced down at her face and averted his eyes._ My face is a wreck; he's embarrassed for me. I'm sitting on the ground, he can't gauge my height. My landmarks are covered and he'd feel like a total pervert for giving them a glance anyway. If I tied my hair back, he'd never pick me out of a lineup._ She gave him a weak smile. "Just a little carsick. It's passing."

He seemed about to say something, but he turned instead. Before he left, he said softly, "A man who wouldn't stand by you through this doesn't deserve you." He walked quickly away. To Anna he said, "If she needs anything, call me. Here's my card. That's my dispatcher, and the number on the back is my cell. Do you have a license?" She must have nodded. "Good. I can wait until you're back on the road."

"If you do, it'll make her feel worse. She's trying to keep everything, you know, normal, for as long as she can."

"Okay then," he said reluctantly. "Take care. Don't lose that card. I'll be back this way in fifteen minutes, just in case." She heard the door open and close, and the cruiser accelerated away.

"Jeezo _petes_, girlfriend. Were you _that_ scared?" Anna offered her a hand up.

"What?"

"Your _allure_. The _grass_ was bending towards you, I swear. He came to you like you were reeling him in on a _line_. Even with a boyfriend in the story, he was _this_ close to asking you out."

"I guess I was. How did you come up with that _story_?"

The little cyber grinned. "Daytime TV." She looked down the road. "We'd better go. Are you okay?"

"I will be, as soon as I get this fright mask off my face. Any tissues in the car?"

"Every car I equip has tissues. Good thing, too. The women in this family spend _way_ too much time wiping one another's tears."

*

By late afternoon, they were rolling towards their final errand, a small car rental agency in San Diego. Anna was well satisfied; the trunk was filled with packages from half a dozen stores, and on the back seat was a second overnight bag, brand new and carefully packed.

"Are you sure you don't want some backup?"

"Positive, hon. There's a good chance Jack was spotted while he was moving, and he's being followed in hopes he'll lead them to the rest of us. To get Jack loose from his surveillance, we may need to surprise them from cover. You're the first of us that they'd spot. You're too easy to recognize from a description, and too hard to disguise. Just drop me off a block from the rental lot."

Caitlin's emerald eyes looked her up and down, as the car wound around a hillside on the two-lane road. "Speaking of blending in, I have to say that 'inconspicuous' isn't the word that comes to mind, looking at you in that outfit."

She tipped her sunglasses down on her nose and looked at the redhead over the rims. "Think I'm trying too hard?"

"I don't know what to think. Where are you meeting him?"

"A mall in Phoenix. We may overnight somewhere in between; I'll call."

"Uh huh." She looked back out the windshield and said carefully, "You going to wear that home?"

"I was planning to. I have a promise to keep."

"Good."


End file.
